


the meaning of family

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Interrogation, Past Child Abuse, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: You’re two days deep in the case when a fourth body turns up, and your stomach drops as soon as you see her - even more so than it usually does. Right there on her bare arm is a mark you’re all too familiar with, and it makes your skin crawl with the loosely buried memory of hot iron and writhing as it comes closer and closer -(In the days after, you hide the mark because you’re young and they told you to, told you that you deserved it, that it’s a reminder of who you belong to. It burns and oozes pus, then scabs over and itches. You remember scratching and scratching, trying to claw it right off because you couldn’t bear to look at it anymoreYears later, the habit will remain - you keep your nails short so that it’s harder to break the skin when you just can’t stop yourself from scratching)
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 198





	the meaning of family

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii - this was a request, if you want to request a fic from me, hmu over there!

There isn’t anything unusual about today; you woke up at the normal time, took a shower, bought a coffee on your way to work. It isn’t until after lunch that the case comes, and even then you don’t suspect. Your skin crawls a little when you realize all the dead young women are from your hometown, but then again you don’t have very many good memories of that place - it’s not surprising that hearing about it makes you uncomfortable.

There are three dead so far - hopefully it’ll stay that way, though it’s doubtful. Three women in their early to mid-twenties killed within the past few months who don’t have much in common aside from their age and low-risk status - if they’re surrogates, physical appearance isn’t the driving factor. 

What’s interesting is they were all reported missing _days_ before they were found dead, yet there are no signs of physical torture - they were dirty and dehydrated and had very little in their stomach contents, but (other than the slit throat that killed them and the ligature marks around their wrists and ankles) there were no cuts or bruises. They were held captive and restrained, then killed days later with no indication that the murder act was anything other than ‘strictly necessary’ - likely a measure to keep the victims from identifying them.

It tickles something in the back of your mind as you listen to the others discuss the case on the plane, but you feel compelled to ignore it. Your unease must show on your face, though, because Spencer leans into you and mutters, “you okay?”

It snaps you out of your reverie, and you notice everyone’s broken off for an hour or two of rest before the plane reaches its destination - the team has finished their discussion without you noticing. Spencer pulls you into him a little and looks concerned, and you realize that he’s still waiting for a response - _what’s wrong with me?_ you think - so you reply, “yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, this case being in my hometown is just throwing me off, that’s all.”

He looks confused, and it hits you that in the years of knowing him (including the past eleven-months-or-so of finally pulling your heads out of your asses and getting together), you’ve never said anything about your childhood or where you grew up - he’s confused because he didn’t know the team is headed for your hometown.

Although to be fair, you don’t know all that much about his childhood either - before the Riley Jenkins case you were halfway convinced he’d spawned into existence at age twelve, a child prodigy freshly graduated from high school and raring to move on to higher education. You were vaguely aware that he must have a father, but Spencer never spoke of him so it was easy to forget (and even after the Jenkins case, he went straight back to pretending William doesn’t exist). 

He talks about his mother fairly often, though almost exclusively when she’s doing well (you’ve come to realize that if he hasn’t said anything about her in a while, it’s because she’s not), but he never says anything about what it was actually like to grow up with her - you think it’s because he can’t bear to say anything bad about her (or because he’d feel guilty for acknowledging that her illness made his life harder). Other than that, he’s mentioned being bullied a few times as an off-hand comment, but even then he doesn’t say much.

You suppose maybe he’s been curious about your childhood, but hasn’t asked for the same reason you don’t ask about his - you know what it’s like to have had a painful upbringing, to not be able to reminisce fondly on your younger years with your friends. It’s not something you want to remember. It’s not something you want people to call to mind when they think of you -

_Or maybe you don’t speak of it because it makes it feel less real - like refusing to give words to those horrible, awful things that happened means they have less power over you. Maybe it’s just_ easier _to let people assume you had a normal childhood, whatever_ that _means, because then you can pretend that’s how it was. Because that’s how you_ wish _it was_

\- His confusion melts into understanding -

_as much as you like to let yourself believe your teammates have no suspicions, they’re profilers. They must know, or at least suspect, on some level. Hotch knows for sure, because you told him._

_Rossi knows, too, because he walked in on you having a panic attack one time, hidden away in the records room at whatever police department you were in. It was because there was a young girl - not even related to the case, just someone you’d seen while picking up coffee for the team - and you could just tell bad things were happening to her. But you couldn’t get her away from her mother. You had no way of finding out her name and reporting it to DCFS. A gut feeling isn’t probable cause to make an arrest. He sat with you and listened to your life story, let out with stuttering words. It helped_

\- and he knows what it’s like not to be ready to talk about something, so he doesn’t push. Instead, he curls an arm around you and turns to his book. Even without words his message is clear - _you don’t have to, but I’m here if you want to talk about it._ You don’t, not yet, but the reassurance that he’s there for you is nice anyway.

He’s not disappointed when you don’t say anything, nor did he necessarily expect it. There’s no _you need to talk about it,_ or _it’s not healthy to hold things in_ , because he trusts you to know what’s best for yourself. It’s one of the reasons you love him.

…

You’re two days deep in the case when a fourth body turns up, and your stomach drops as soon as you see her - even more so than it usually does. Right there on her bare arm is a mark you’re all too familiar with - it makes your skin crawl with the loosely buried memory of _hot iron_ and writhing as it comes closer and closer -

_In the days after, you hide the mark because you’re young and they told you to, told you that you deserved it, that it’s a reminder of who you belong to. It burns and oozes pus, then scabs over and itches. You remember scratching and scratching, trying to claw it right off because you couldn’t bear to look at it anymore_

_(years later, the habit will remain - you keep your nails short so that it’s harder to break the skin when you just can’t stop yourself from scratching)_

\- You don’t need to see anything more. The others are all stunned when you storm back to the car, tearing open the door and slamming it shut behind you, hiding your face in your hands as you try desperately not to panic. 

No one else knows about that mark, not even Hotch or Rossi. You know _exactly_ who did this and exactly where to find them - even after all these years of being no contact, you haven’t been able to stop yourself from keeping tabs ~~just in case~~. 

You can’t help but feel guilty, like those four women are dead because you couldn’t make yourself tell anyone. On the other hand, you’re not sure what you could have done. It’s the only physical mark they ever left on you (suddenly the MO starts to make sense - they never did get off on physical torture), and you know how hard it is to get people put away without tangible evidence. 

Spencer knocks lightly on the window and raises an eyebrow, asking if it’s okay for him to come in. Your nod is barely there, but he sees it and gently tugs the door open, mindful of your distress. He sits next to you and leaves the door cracked, both closed enough to create a safe bubble for you two and open enough to allow for some air circulation. 

You don’t know where to start, and you’re not sure you can say this twice. You tell him as much, “I promise I’ll explain how once we get back to the station, but I don’t think I can say it more than once. Can you tell the team that I know who the unsub, well _unsubs_ are?”

He leans in and gives you a kiss on the forehead, taking a moment to soothe circles over your back before nodding, “I can do that,” and exiting the car. 

…

You think Hotch already knows what you’re going to say, if the way he’s looking at you is anything to go by. You were silent the whole way back from the crime scene, but you can’t put this off anymore - the only way you’re going to get through this is by pretending it’s a normal case, so you steel yourself and just start, “Our unsubs are Mr. and Mrs. (y/l/n)”

You can practically feel the glances the rest of the team are exchanging even though your gaze remains locked on the conference table. Morgan is the one to break the silence, letting out only a tentative, “(y/n)…”

You raise your head to lock eyes with him, making sure to keep your voice steady, “I’m sure.”

“…I just want to make sure you’re not jumping to conclusions,” he says, undoubtedly referring to the Jenkins case and how Spencer wrongly accused his father of murder.

“ _I’m sure_ ,” you repeat, no hesitation in your voice, “and I can get a confession out of them.”

…

With the help of the profile, Garcia manages to pull together enough for a warrant after a few nerve-wracking hours. Hotch won’t let you assist with the arrest, so you’re stuck waiting at the station when the rest of the team heads out.

When they come back, leading your parents (though you’re loath to grace them with that title) to the interrogation rooms in handcuffs, you’re tucked away where they can’t see you, peering on from afar - it’s not that you’re hiding from them, per se, but you want to rub your success in their faces when you walk into the interview room. Let them sweat a bit before the big reveal - _you thought you got away with tormenting your only child, but HA! your despicable behavior came back to bite you in the ass._

Once you’re sure they’ve been secured behind the one-way glass, you stalk over to the interrogation rooms, ignoring the rest of the team in favor of peering in on those two sorry excuses for people, separated into two separate rooms with the temperature cranked down too low, chained to the tables like dogs. 

“I’ll talk to her,” you point to your ‘mother,’ “first. She’s more likely to let something slip if she’s angry, and seeing me will certainly make her _angry._ ”

Hotch tries to catch your eye, finally turning you around to face him when you won’t tear your gaze from your ‘mother,’ “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not,” you say, surprising even yourself with how flat your voice is.

Rossi moves in, placing himself in between you and the glass so as to block your view of that woman, “(y/n)…you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

His words flare irritation in you, and you take a deep breath to calm yourself, knowing an outburst will only further their argument against you doing this, “I’m not doing this to _prove_ anything, I’m doing this for those four women who got murdered and deserve justice, understand?”

Hotch considers you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning his gaze back to your ‘mother, his decision made. Rossi takes a little longer, but he, too, steps aside.

It’s time to go in, but where just a minute ago you were steadfast, now you can’t seem to make yourself move -

_Come on, you’re not a child anymore. They can’t control you anymore - you can do this_

\- Spencer curls his fingers around your hand, giving a tight squeeze and leaving his palm to linger, waiting for your response. You squeeze back, feeling the strength flood back into you, then release and turn to step into the interrogation room before you can second guess yourself.

She recognizes you immediately and starts playing like she’s the perfect mom, “(y/n)! Thank god, you’ll help sort this out won’t you? You know your father and I haven’t done anything wrong, they just arrested us out of _nowhere_ …”

You ignore her, pull out the metal chair and seat yourself without even glancing in her direction. Once you’ve made a show of situating yourself, you begin, “Mrs. (y/l/n), do you know why you’re here?”

You see irritation flash in her eyes at being ignored and internally smirk, knowing you’ve already won the upper hand. “(y/n), is that any way to greet your mother?” she says with false niceness.

“It’s Agent (y/l/n), and you have no right to call yourself my _mother_ ,” you retort, leaning forward on the table to invade her personal space.

She growls, then forces her facade back into place, pretending her anger hasn’t just leaked out, “(y/n),” she says pointedly, “you have to know that we’re innocent. I could never hurt anybody.”

She sends you a look that would have once had you melting into obedience, but you’re not a little girl anymore and it barely phases you. You meet it with a glare of your own, holding silence you know she’ll feel compelled to fill if you wait long enough. 

She holds out longer than you expected she would, but they all crack eventually, “listen to your mother, (y/n),” she spits out, “get me out of here.”

“Or what?” you taunt, leaning back in your chair and adopting a relaxed posture.

You can see her struggling to hold back a shriek, fighting her desire to scream obscenities at you like she did throughout your youth. She drops her voice and speaks with a false calm, “you know.”

You know exactly what she’s referring to, of course you do -

_The basement is dark and mildewy and cold. It feels like you’ve been down here for days - school’s on break right now, you think, so maybe you have been - the only reprieve are the small meals and bottles of water pushed in every so often, and the smirk of your mother as she closes the door before you can even leap to your feet, the light from the hallway temporarily blinding your tired eyes._

_She used to be nice sometimes, but she’s never nice anymore. You can’t help but hope, though, every time she opens the door._ Maybe this time _, you think,_ maybe this time she’ll let me go

\- but you also know she can’t hurt you anymore. She’s trying to make herself look threatening, but it’s impossible when she’s chained to the table like she is. You play naive and reply, “I’m not sure I do, I think you’re going to have to remind me,” trying to goad her into unleashing her rage on tape.

She keeps her mouth shut, knowing if she opens it she’ll incriminate herself, so you continue, “did you do the same thing to those girls before you killed them? You couldn’t help yourself, could you, now that I’m not your little ‘plaything’ anymore - guess what? Now _I’m_ the one who’s got the upper hand. I can get up and leave whenever I want, but you? You have to stay right here, chained to this table, until I feel like letting you go. Not so nice being on this side of things, is it? Is it, _mother_ \- “

“You shut your mouth!” she shrieks, the table rattling as she pulls against the cuff, “Just wait until I get out of here, you lying little cunt, and I’ll put you in your place - I bet you miss the basement, don’t you (y/n)? If you’d have just stayed with us, those girls would never have died, you know that!? It’s all your fault we had to kill them - “

She cuts herself off with a gasp, knowing she’s just shot herself in the foot, her eyes damn near bugging out of their sockets. You stand calmly and smirk down at her once you’ve risen to your full height. She shrinks under your gaze, practically trembling now that she knows she’s not getting out of this.

“You want to know how I knew?” you ask.

She doesn’t say anything, barely even twitches, but you continue anyway, stepping around the table so you’re right next to her. You tug up your right sleeve and bare your forearm, fingering lightly over the scar tissue, “you know, I never knew whose idea it was to brand me. I know now, though. It was _his_ \- Mr. (y/l/n),” you utter his name for the recording, “he left it on your last victim, did you know that?”

She looks surprised and mindlessly shakes her head, too rattled to do anything else. You go on, “I know you’re too smart for that, to leave something that could identify you. It was left post-mortem - I guess you shouldn’t have trusted him to dispose of the body alone,” and with that, you stalk out of the interrogation room, holding your confident demeanor until she can’t see you anymore and refusing to look back.

You let out a shaky breath and brace your back against the wall, closing your eyes against the looks from your teammates. You feel a hand - Spencer’s, you know - tug yours away from your arm. You feel the slight burn from where you must have been scratching without realizing it, soothed slightly when Spencer closes his palm around the brand to hide it from the view of the others and pulls you into a tight hug, nudging you to bury your face in his neck. 

You know that you’ll have to let them take pictures of the scar for evidentiary purposes, and that you still need to get a confession out of your father (though you know he’ll be easy to crack once he knows your mother has confessed), but you allow yourself this moment of reprieve.

…

After it all, the plane ride is tense and uncomfortably quiet. No one is brave enough to breach the silence, least of all yourself. 

You put on a brave face throughout the interrogation, and you’re nowhere near weak but everyone has their limits. You’re so tired, but too keyed up to sleep. For now, all you can do is stare out the window and count the clouds, thinking about how you’ll probably be called to testify once the case gets to trial and wishing you didn’t have to face them one last time.

…

Some time later, you end up in a bar with the team, stirring idly at your drink. You’re afraid to drink it, afraid it’ll encourage you to bury your emotions in alcohol. Everyone’s playing at normalcy, but you catch them glancing at you out of the corners of their eyes when they think you’re not looking, worried about how little you’ve spoken since the interrogation. 

When you get the chance, you slip outside, breathing in the cool night air and letting your ears calm from the noise of the bar. After a while, you feel a presence approaching you and you turn, somewhat tense and jumpy. It’s just Rossi, and you release the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. 

“Nice night,” he says, gesturing toward the stars.

“Yeah,” you mutter, not sure what else to say.

He stands in silence with you for a while, offering solidarity as you try to process your thoughts. Eventually, he speaks. “Let him in,” is all he says, and you’re confused at first, unsure _who_ exactly he’s referring to.

You look at him questioningly, your brow furrowing and eyes squinting a little. He lets a gentle smile overtake his face and flickers his gaze to something behind you, making you instinctively turn to look. 

Spencer’s emerging from the bar, obviously looking for someone _(for me,_ you correct yourself). He lights up once he sees you, his gate picking up as he makes his way over. 

“Good work today,” Rossi says softly, making his way back inside once he’s sure Spencer’s on his way. You look over to him briefly and mutter out a quick, “thanks,” before turning back to Spencer, who’s made it over to you by now.

You know he won’t make you talk, and maybe that’s what prompts you to do so. He just listens as you speak, his lips curling into a frown at the particularly upsetting parts, but his face remaining entirely free of pity. When you’re done, he pulls you into him once again, rubbing his hands over your back and through your hair and humming a little off-key tune. 

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear, voice so soft it’s barely audible. 

“Mmm,” you hum in response, the words that came so easily just minutes before now evading you.

“Let’s go home,” he says, and you know he means his apartment. 

You nod into him, content with the realization that these people are the family that matters, not those others rotting in a jail cell. 


End file.
